foot.

Instantly the old lady half arose from her chair as if in pain, shrieking and brandishing her cane, the leg held stiffly out in front of her. "You've injured me," she shrieked in a raucous voice. "You've hurt my lame foot!"

Mark stood there dumbly. He was a young man and so he didn't at once foresee what was about to happen.

A crowd gathered in no time. The old lady was putting on a show. Mark didn't get it. He would have allowed her a thousand points—even fifteen hundred—without argument. But he got the shock of his young life.

"Thirty thousand points!" she screamed at him, and thrust a pad of slips at him. "Sign my slip, please."

Mark took the pad automatically. He took the pencil she held out. He started to sign. He'd never get a credit balance at the Central Bureau now, but he didn't care. Maybe he'd get in so deep they'd give him some work.

The old lady's voice rose unexpectedly. "My feelings are hurt, too. He did it deliberately. Five thousand points for my injured feelings."

Dazedly Mark wrote down "Thirty-five thousand and no more," and signed his name. He handed the pad back to her and started on. The crowd was leaving.

But a voice stopped him. A soft voice. "Wait, son." He looked back. He started to go on, then he saw the old lady's eyes on his. "Stick around," she said. There wasn't any raucousness in her voice now. "Wait till the crowd goes. I want to talk to you."

Presently he was walking beside her while she laboriously operated the two big hand-wheels that propelled the chair. Two blocks away she turned into an empty building marked "Groceries." Mark helped her cross the threshold.

Inside, she amazed him by springing out of the chair and standing quite steadily. She was small and she wasn't as old and wrinkled as he had thought. "You get in the chair," she said. "I'll push you. I need the exercise."

A minute later she was pushing him briskly along the street while Mark sat, still half dazed, in the wicker chair, her old red shawl was across his lap.

"Get cramps in my legs, to say nothing of my bottom," she observed, "sitting there all day." She saw him stiffen. "Oh, you needn't be shocked. After all, I'm old enough to be your grandmother. I was born in 1940, you know."

"Nineteen-forty," Mark repeated, wonderingly. "Gee, that was back in the days when everybody worked. I wish I could work."

"Well, it's a changed world," she observed. "In those days, you had to work."

At that instant Mark heard the ominous slapping footsteps. He looked ahead, and there was Conley, easily noticeable because of the type N hat a head above everybody else, coming toward them. Mark snatched up the red shawl and wrapped it around his face to the nose and pulled his hat low over his eyes. He watched from under the type L brim while Conley approached. He held his breath while Conley fixed his deep eyes on him for a moment, but Conley went by, and once more he was safe.

The old lady trotted briskly along. They passed a few people who stared at them, but Mark was thinking. "This is 2021," he observed. "You're eighty-one years old. You must know all about things."

"I'm quite spry," she pointed out, "though I must say I am working up a sweat right now. No, no—" She pushed Mark back into the chair. "It's good for me. Don't get enough exercise any more. Now you just sit there. You're in a bad way. Anybody who'd fall for such a phony act and release thirty-five thousand points without even an argument—well, of course," she said archly, "I do have a well-turned ankle."

But the enormity of Mark's debit with Central when the old lady should turn in his slip, began to worry him. He wondered if he could get it back from her. He wasn't happy with the world, and things were all wrong, and all that, but still—well, he did have to live in it. Thirty-five thousand points. He began to worry. He wished he knew what the penalty would be. He wondered if the old lady knew. What were